


trouble though he may be

by MagicalSpaceDragon



Series: Enemies With Benefits [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Cross-Faction Flirting, Humor, M/M, Size Difference, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, everything that happens is consensual but there are definitely places it could have gotten iffy, mentions of MegOp but only for purposes of affectionate mockery, nobody actually fucks but they have vivid imaginations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 14:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19007290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicalSpaceDragon/pseuds/MagicalSpaceDragon
Summary: A Decepticon walks into a bar. The Autobot walks under it.Or, Deadlock just wants a decent drink and an uneventful evening. He gets neither of those things.





	trouble though he may be

**Author's Note:**

> hey how do people write horny fic without bursting into flames and/or losing all sense of what's actually sexy because you've read the words too many times and they've stopped making sense? asking for a friend
> 
> shoutout to the driftrod server and especially my betas, i would have never had the resolve to finish this without your loving peer pressure

A little peace and quiet, that's _all he asks._

Deadlock's never had trouble with this bar before. It's a Neutral settlement that's survived by being more strategically useful as neutral ground than it would be as a military outpost, which means it's in everyone's interests to play nice and not kill each other.

He's got a good seat tonight, too. Booth, which isn't ideal, but he has his back to the wall, decent exit routes in a few different directions, and a view of the entire bar that means he's been able to keep an eye on the only other badge he's seen tonight, a little pink Autobot who's been sizing him up since he walked in.

Deadlock sips his drink—something expensive he'd ordered for the hell of it, thick and cloying and barely worth the fuel it's blended with—and sizes the Autobot up right back. Smallish, barely-armored racecar, probably depends on keeping plenty of space between himself and his foes so he can attack at range. He's not going to do well in a bar fight, not when Deadlock has the advantage of size and relative sobriety.

On cue, the Autobot starts slamming highgrade. Deadlock seriously considers putting the idiot out of his misery preemptively. But then the Neutrals would hold _him_ responsible, and he has better things to do than whine about _who started it_ with a superior officer.

All too soon, the Autobot reaches whatever threshold of overcharged he needs to think that picking a fight with an irritated Decepticon minding his own damn business is a good idea. Deadlock rests one hand on the gun at his hip, makes cool, unruffled eye contact with his enemy, and just barely manages to not choke on his drink because the Autobot is _swinging his hips._

In the time it takes him to completely recalibrate his plans for the night, the Autobot reaches his table, slag-sucking grin informing the world that he saw every _microsecond_ of Deadlock's reaction. Deadlock would be annoyed, except then the 'bot puts one hand on the table and cocks his hips _just_ so, and suddenly Deadlock's attention is on _far_ more important things.

He sizes the Autobot up again, _slowly_ this time. He really is a classical speedster build, all sleek lines and slender pieces. Deadlock follows the graceful line of his leg upward to those hips he wants to fit against his _immediately,_ and makes no effort to hide the interested rev of his engine as his optics stall out on the 'bot's narrow, flexible waist and its orange biolights. It would look _perfect_ under his hands. Or between his legs. He's not picky.

His upper body has thicker armor, still aerodynamic and enticing. He's got a flashy yellow target on his chest, complete with tacky flame motif, but what _really_ catches Deadlock's attention is the spoiler. Placement on the back like that is uncommon, and the way it's fluttering like a particularly expressive pair of wings is doubly so. Must be pretty damn sensitive. He doesn't lick his lips, but it's a near thing.

His eyes reach the 'bot's face again to find that the slag-sucking grin has only gotten more pronounced.

"Hey," the Autobot says smugly, lights bright with overcharge. "This seat taken?"

Deadlock is briefly seized by the mental image of that stupid, irritating face buried in his valve, which is more than enough reason for him to grin back and say, "All yours."

The Autobot throws himself into Deadlock's lap.

What.

_"What."_

The Autobot snorts. "I _asked,"_ he says inanely, looping his arms around Deadlock's neck. Deadlock would shove him onto the floor if it weren't for the fact that suddenly that perfect little waist is in grabbing range. In fact, he grudgingly admits as he adjusts the mostly-pliant Autobot sprawled across his lap, this is a _much_ better position than whatever flimsy pretense of personal space he was expecting.

Still, he has a reputation to uphold. "You're lucky you're so cute, Deathwish."

_"You're_ lucky that's a cool nickname, tough guy." The little 'bot has the audacity to tap him on the tip of the nose for emphasis. "C'mon, woo me."

"You're the one who invited yourself over here," Deadlock snorts, running his hands up the mech's sides and feeling out the edges of his biolights. _"You_ woo _me."_

The Autobot makes a face at him. "Please, you're already wooed." His hands slide around to Deadlock's collar, then down over his chest. "I'm a sparkbreaker, you know. You can't resist my charms." He rubs his thumbs over the badge, coaxing out a little thrill of charge that pools under his touch. "I bet you're already in love with me."

Deadlock laughs and teases his claws into a seam. The little 'bot invents sharply and leans into him, flattening his deliciously over-hot body against Deadlock's. "Let's not go crazy here."

He trails his claws up the Autobot's back with just enough pressure to scrape up nice thin lines of paint, then gives in to temptation and gets his hands on that cute little spoiler. He's not entirely expecting the quiet moan it pulls out of the Autobot, or the way his head drops forward while his spoiler presses insistently into Deadlock's touch. Experimentally, he runs his claws over it like he did his back, and is rewarded with a full-body shiver.

"So," he says, splaying his fingers out over the spoiler and starting to idly map out sensors. "What do I call you?"

A spot on the leading edge makes the 'bot gasp. "If you keep doing that, whatever you _want."_

"I may just take you up on that, Deathwish." He gropes the spoiler's base, and the Autobot clutches appreciatively at his back. "But right now I'd like a _name."_

The Autobot pulls away just far enough to make eye contact. He's still wearing that smug look, like _he's_ the one in control even though he's giving in to Deadlock's every touch. "Hot Rod." He pokes Deadlock's chest. "What about _you,_ tough guy?"

Sometimes he wishes he were the kind of mech who didn't mind a nameless frag. Less fuss. He abandons the spoiler to tease the Autobot with light touches down his sides, memorizing the shape of him. He forces himself to let go, touching him but not hanging onto him, because Pit knows enough of his _own_ faction panics when they realize just who's showing interest. "Deadlock."

Hot Rod's cooling fans _roar._

"O _kay_ then." His hands brace against Deadlock's shoulders, pinning him against the wall, and he swings a leg over to straddle Deadlock's thighs. "I think _my_ night—" He grinds down and Deadlock's head falls back in a groan. "—just got a _lot_ more interesting."

Deadlock dismisses _a few_ notifications from his array, and then a few _more_ as Hot Rod's infuriatingly clever little fingers zero in on the most sensitive cable in his arm. _Damn._ He's being outdone here.

Well, since the bold little Autobot likes big, scary Decepticons so much…

Deadlock leans forward to test Hot Rod's hold and meets no resistance, even as he tugs him close enough to scrape his fangs over a neck cable, just the _suggestion_ of a threat. Hot Rod's head tips to the side, baring his neck in a shameless invitation.

Or maybe more like a shameless _plea,_ if how eagerly he's revving up under Deadlock's touch is any indication. "You _need_ this, huh," he muses, pausing his teasing not-bites to lick a long, slow line up the Autobot's throat.

"Ex _cuse_ you?" Hot Rod snorts. He tweaks the cable he's playing with _just_ right, making Deadlock hiss. "I could land anyone in this bar."

He _does_ bite this time, savoring the way the metal gives ever so slightly under his fangs before he eases up. He's no longer surprised that he gets a moan instead of a warning. "And yet I can't help but notice you picked the _one_ Decepticon."

At the taunt, the Autobot goes oddly silent. His hands keep moving, but he's distracted. Deadlock closes his mouth and uncomfortably plays the last few seconds over. That… may have been pushing too far.

Hot Rod leans back and fixes him with a serious look. "Do you think Optimus and Megatron have ever done it?"

"I—what?" He runs a quick self-diagnostic on his audials. _"What?"_

Hot Rod rolls his optics and sits down on Deadlock's thighs. "Okay, _so,_ _you_ asked why I would hit on the one Decepticon in the bar, so then I asked myself why I _would_ hit on the one Decepticon in the bar." He's gesturing as he speaks, like he's indicating the physical path his thoughts took. Deadlock notes that his optics are brighter than before—he definitely _sounds_ more overcharged. "And _I_ figure it's probably because I usually _can't_ , and everybody _knows_ it's sexier when you're not supposed to, and _obviously_ you know what I'm talking about because you were doing that _thing_ with your _mouth."_

Deadlock not-quite-patiently settles into his seat, hands on Hot Rod's thighs and optics on the little scratches and teeth marks up and down his neck. He'd _love_ to get back to doing 'that thing with his mouth', but he's not going to be able to _focus_ on it until he gets an explanation.

"And it's not just not being allowed," Hot Rod continues, one hand coming up to play with Deadlock's badge again. "There's also the whole, y'know, _hatefrag_ thing, and everyone talks about that so I guess I wanted to see what all the fuss is about—oh, that looks good, what is it?"

Deadlock takes a sip of the long-neglected drink he's returned to in his darkest hour. It hasn't gotten any better while he's been ignoring it. He's tempted to turn off his taste receptors, but he doesn't want to finish this strong of highgrade too quickly—and he _could_ just engage his FIM, but that would mean facing this nonsense _sober._

Rather than admit to any of that, he holds it out it to Hot Rod, who immediately throws back a good half of it without remorse.

"Oh, it's _sweet,"_ he mumbles, making himself comfortable against Deadlock's chest. His spoiler flutters, _begging_ to be pet, and when Deadlock obliges his engine starts to purr happily.

"Something about hatefragging?" he prompts when Hot Rod doesn't start up again on his own.

Hot Rod jerks upright—he ignores the part of his processor that mourns the weight against his chassis—and nods enthusiastically. "Right! So, I thought, you know who _really_ needs to have a good angry frag to get it all out of their systems?"

He shifts his grip for the new angle, slowly rubbing circles up the spoiler's length. "Megatron and Prime?"

"Megatron and Prime! But then I realized they're, you know…" Hot Rod makes an expansive gesture with his new glass of highgrade that means absolutely nothing, but still somehow conveys, to Deadlock's horror and growing fascination, _exactly_ the point he's making. _"Them."_

Deadlock runs his fingers along Hot Rod's trailing edge and reflects on the kind of impassioned monologues he's been witness to. "It _would_ explain why Megatron is always going on about conquering and domination, wouldn't it?"

_"Right?"_ Hot Rod takes another drink, savoring it a bit more, and licks his lips. _Primus._ "Does he _always_ talk like that?"

"Oh, _constantly."_

Hot Rod laughs and fake-swoons. "Ooh, _Megatron,"_ he says, pitching his voice low in a terrible impression of Prime. "Conquer me _harder."_

Deadlock has to wait for his spontaneous coughing fit to subside before he can respond. "Anything to _put you in your place,_ Prime."

_"Frag,"_ Hot Rod wheezes. "You sound just like him, do you _practice_ that?"

"Decepticon secret." Yes.

Hot Rod snorts into his drink. Then, with a mischievous look, he flings an arm around Deadlock's neck and writhes against him like something out of a bad porn vid. "Oh, _Megsy-wegsy,_ I've been so _bad,"_ he whines. "I'm all tortured by _guilt_ and stuff and I need someone to _punish_ me!"

Deadlock can't even pretend he isn't laughing anymore. "Ah, Prime, _old friend!_ Lucky for you, I _love_ using violence to solve my problems, and _you_ are _no exception!"_ Primus, he'd better _hope_ there's no other Decepticons around.

"Oh, _Megsy,"_ Hot Rod moans, rolling his hips and fluttering his spoiler practically in Deadlock's face. _"Please,_ um… make me, uh… scrap, um— _ohfragdothatagain."_

Deadlock hums and licks the spoiler-tip soothingly. The bite mark in the sensitive metal feels _wonderful_ under his tongue. "Do what again?"

_"Fragger."_ Hot Rod's hands find his finials—the drink is probably on the table somewhere, who cares—and start stroking them in retaliation. A bit clumsy, sure, but when he's already revved up like this?

Hot Rod's hips jerk in his lap when Deadlock bites his spoiler again. Their panels are so hot against each other it's almost painful, Hot Rod's hands are shaking and he's making all these _greedy_ noises that Deadlock is starting to mirror despite himself, soothing the tender metal with his tongue and then moving on to the next smooth patch. He's going to mark this pretty mech all _over._

Someone resets their vocalizer.

Deadlock's head snaps up immediately. Absolutely no one in the bar is looking in their direction, which is the only reason they're all _still in one piece._ His lip curls into a snarl and he opens his mouth to demand to know who the _Pit_ thinks they can just—

"Oh, Primus, right, there's people in here," Hot Rod whispers into his neck. His shoulders are hunched like he's trying to make himself smaller, and it occurs to Deadlock that he's been facing a wall this whole time.

He closes his mouth.

"Nobody's looking at us," he says, awkwardly patting Hot Rod's back. Somehow the 'bot's arms have tangled themselves around Deadlock's waist.

"We should probably go," Hot Rod mumbles. At his own words, he perks up. "I've got a ship. With a _berth._ We should go back to my ship."

Deadlock could name a hundred reasons off the top of his head why he shouldn't follow an Autobot back to his ship with no plan, no backup, and no exit strategy. "Yeah? How far is it?"

"There's a lot somewhere," Hot Rod says with a gesture in vaguely the same direction as the ship lot Deadlock left his own shuttle in. It's not far, though it'll be slower on foot.

"Sounds like a plan." Hot Rod only needs a _little_ nudging to get on his feet, though he has to steady himself on the table. When Deadlock stands, Hot Rod makes a show of looking him up and down, playfully revving his engine, and—downing the rest of the drink before Deadlock can snatch it out of his hand.

"I want you _awake,"_ he says, exasperated. Hot Rod just snickers at him.

"'m not gonna just _waste_ it."

"I would have finished it," he lies. If he were leaving alone? Sure. Following an Autobot who-knows-where for an already _very_ stupid frag? No.

"Pfff, you didn't like it." He doesn't fight Deadlock putting a hand on his arm and steering him to the door. "You were making faces at it."

Predictably, Hot Rod tries to transform the moment they step outside. Deadlock grabs him around the middle so he can't, and Hot Rod hisses in discomfort and hits him—the way you'd hit an annoying ally, not someone you're trying to fight off, which Deadlock takes as a good sign. "I'm not letting you crash yourself."

"I'm not going to crash!" Another ineffective whack to his arm. "Why do you even care!"

Deadlock takes Hot Rod by the shoulders and looks him in the eye. "If you crash yourself, then we don't get to frag," he says flatly. "Do you have any idea how long it's _been_ since I've had a good frag?"

Hot Rod stares at him for a moment, and then the _smirk_ is back, _Primus,_ if this doesn't work out then at least he can self-service to the thought of completely _wrecking_ that stupid face. He is going to get a _lot_ of mileage out of that smile.

...Smirk. That smirk.

"Glad you know I'm gonna be a _good_ frag," Hot Rod says, strolling ahead with a jaunty swing in his step like he's completely forgotten his irritation. "So, come here often?"

"I think you're supposed to _open_ with that line," Deadlock says, keeping pace with him easily. As much as he'd like to hang a few steps behind for the view, this is a better position to stop the Autobot if he tries anything stupid.

Hot Rod sticks his tongue out at him. "It's a real question! I'm trying to make conversation, _Deadlock."_

Well, Hot Rod being impressed with his identity was nice while it lasted. "I've been here once or twice when I was in the area. Nothing recent."

"Mhmm. You ever come with your friends?"

He flicks Hot Rod in the arm. "Careful, a mech might think you're fishing for intel." He doesn't come here with 'friends'. He likes to get _away_ from the constant posturing once in a while.

Hot Rod rolls his optics. "Fine, be _paranoid. I've_ never been here before, and _usually_ I do stuff like this with _my_ friends." He wavers on his feet, but before Deadlock can catch him he catches himself, looping his arm around Deadlock's. "Nobody wanted to come with me today. Serves 'em right. I'm gonna frag me a hot Decepticon and there's nothing they can do about it."

"Lucky Decepticon. Wonder if he's anybody I know." Hot Rod snorts and swings his elbow into Deadlock's side in a playful jab. "You should tell me about him."

"I dunno, I think he's some nobody," Hot Rod teases. "He's pretty hot, though. Speed frame, nice waist, killer smile... Really knows how to rev a mech up." He flicks his spoiler for emphasis. "I think the moment I get him alone I'm gonna hop on that spike and ride it 'til my legs give out."

_"Primus."_ His cooling fans hit full power so fast he feels light-headed. The Autobot takes advantage of his distraction to wriggle the rest of his scorching-hot frame under Deadlock's arm and against his side. "You _sure_ we have to wait?"

Hot Rod pats his aft consolingly. "Tell you what, if you're a _really_ good frag I'll let you flip me over and go a couple more rounds once my hydraulics give up."

"You're trying to _kill_ me."

"M _hm."_ His fingers clumsily pluck at a seam in Deadlock's hip. "Is it working?"

"Not yet," he lies. His processor is rapidly throwing him image after image of Hot Rod on his back, venting clouds of steam, blissed-out smile, legs limp around his hips and whole frame trembling with overexertion. Honestly, his array should be on fire by now from the effort of keeping his panels shut. "I'm only a little seduced. Try harder."

Hot Rod laughs, and his processor is so caught up in adding the sound to its predictions of the night's activities that he almost doesn't catch the 'bot when he stumbles over his own feet.

"I hate walking," Hot Rod declares, dangling strutlessly. Deadlock rights him, but he refuses to take his own weight. "Carry me."

_"Carry—"_ Of course. Why would he have expected anything less? He opts for an arm under Hot Rod's legs and the other across his back, careful to mind the spoiler. He _could_ toss him over his shoulder like the fussy, overcharged idiot deserves, but—well—

Well, if he'd done that, Hot Rod wouldn't be able to nuzzle his face into the crook of Deadlock's neck and mumble something that sounds suspiciously like _you're perfect_ against the cables. So there. This was the ideal tactical choice.

He's not even going to have to carry him very far. They're within view of the lot.

"Comfortable?" he teases.

Hot Rod puts his arms around Deadlock's neck and wiggles deeper into his hold. "Mhm."

The place isn't _huge,_ but it's big enough—and crowded enough, most of these _must_ be aliens visiting for one reason or another—that a quick visual scan doesn't turn up any ships of standard Autobot make.

When Hot Rod doesn't offer any assistance, he sighs. "Alright, I give up, where's yours?"

No response.

Deadlock glances down and taps the base of his spoiler with a finger. "You alright there?"

Hot Rod keeps his face buried in Deadlock's chest. "'M fine," he says, in the exact tone of an idiot whose frame has just burned through the last of its highgrade and is rapidly veering toward a crash.

"Do _not_ pass out on me," Deadlock orders, suddenly aware of how much his array _hurts._ "Which one of these is yours?"

Hot Rod scoffs and starts fishing around in his subspace. "Red one."

Deadlock opens his mouth to protest that 'red one' isn't exactly a helpful amount of detail, and then he sees it, lurking in the back like a fireball coming too fast to run away from. _Red_ is a massive understatement. He can barely look at it directly. It's _exactly_ the kind of ship a mech who covers himself in flame decals would own.

He's almost a little fond of it, actually. "Somehow I can tell it's yours."

Hot Rod produces a key. "Nah, borrowed it from the Wreckers." He beams with pride. "The paint job was my idea, though."

The Wreckers, huh. Well, _that_ has implications that would be terrifying to any Decepticon with any self-preservation instincts whatsoever. He's pretty sure it's doing the same things to his array that _'Deadlock'_ did to Hot Rod's.

Hot Rod fumbles with the key for a few seconds before he manages to get the ship open. Between the external structure and the floor plan, Deadlock has the sneaking suspicion that it might actually be a stolen Decepticon scout vessel with a few cosmetic modifications. Definitely not his problem.

The berthroom door slides open with the unhappy hiss of shoddy maintenance. Hot Rod mockingly repeats the noise, then squints at Deadlock with deep suspicion. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No," he lies. Primus help him, Hot Rod is _pouting._ "I think you're done for the night." He sets him down on the berth, or at least he _would_ if the stupid Autobot would _let go of him._

"Nuh-uh," Hot Rod scolds playfully, tugging his head down until they're nose to nose. "I called being on top first."

Deadlock tries to extricate himself from the hold, but he's pinned under Hot Rod's bright blue gaze. "Nobody's getting on top of anyone. You're going to pass out any second now."

"I'll pass _you_ out."

"That doesn't even—" And then Hot Rod closes the distance and kisses him.

It's so _gentle._ He would have expected teeth and force, challenging and one-upping each other like they were at the bar. Instead there are lips moving softly over his and arms around his neck doing nothing but _holding_ him and it might be the most intimate thing he's felt in hundreds of thousands of years.

Hot Rod kisses him like they _know_ each other. He kisses him like there's no reason _not_ to. He kisses him like they'll have plenty of time in the morning, and somehow that's the worst part.

Deadlock tries to kiss him back the same way.

"You're sweet," Hot Rod mumbles against his lips. _He likes sweet things,_ his processor supplies inanely.

"You're…" He's not sure what he's about to say, and it doesn't matter, because Hot Rod's optics go dark as his frame finally catches up with him and knocks him into powersave.

Deadlock is awkwardly hunched over a berth that isn't his, he has an unconscious Autobot deadweighted around his neck, his lips are tingling from that kiss like he's some kind of newbuild, and his array is _still sending him notifications._

"What the _hell,_ Deathwish."

Hot Rod's engine tapers off gently, biolights dimming bit by bit as the rest of his shutdown procedures run. He's helpless. Completely at the mercy of an enemy.

Deadlock shutters his optics for a moment and tells his spark to knock it off. "What kind of idiot drinks this much without any friends around, anyway? What were you _thinking?"_

Carefully, he lifts the Autobot's hands from his neck.

"You can't trust _me._ What if I just left you here and didn't plug you in?"

He could do other things, too. He pauses, cradling Hot Rod to his chest, and thinks about how easy it would be to kill him like this. There would be no consequences. They're at war and they were never going to speak to each other again anyway. It would serve him right for letting his guard down so badly.

He arranges Hot Rod on the berth so that his spoiler isn't pinched under anything.

"You'd be stuck here in stasis lock until someone bothered to come looking for you, that's what," he finishes lamely. Hot Rod makes a tiny, content sound as he's plugged in.

Deadlock stands at the edge of the berth and stares down at him and _does not panic._

He needs to leave, _now._ He needs to turn around and go back to his ship and pretend none of this ever happened. He needs to head back to the Decepticons and never touch highgrade again for the rest of his _life,_ because apparently even a few _drops_ of the stuff is enough to delude him into thinking that any of this nonsense has been _meaningful._

What he _actually_ does is slowly, belatedly bring his fingers to his lips.

"I hate you _so much,"_ he lies.

Alright. Fine. He'll let himself do one last stupid thing tonight, and _then_ he'll leave.

* * *

 

Hot Rod wakes up with an empty fuel tank and a headache.

Cracking his optics open reveals that the room is mercifully dark, so he must have been in bad enough shape last night that whoever dragged him back from the bar took pity on him. He sits up slowly, trying to ignore the throbbing in his helm, and fishes a cube out of his subspace. He's plugged into the recharge slab—aw, they _do_ care—so he's not in danger of passing out again, but the empty tank is uncomfortable.

Time to take stock. He is… in the scout ship. The tiny, one-mech scout ship he took off in alone. Because he was feeling petty and unwanted and like doing something stupid. And... _someone_ dragged him back to it?

_Deadlock's_ predatory grin swims into his memory and he doubles over, trying and failing not to invent his energon. Right. Right! He gave a drunken lapdance to one of the most notorious Decepticons alive. In a crowded bar. Loudly dirty-talking him the entire time. Right. Fantastic. Okay.

He remembers hands _all over_ his spoiler. (He remembers them feeling really, _really_ good.) It twinges where—okay, _yep,_ there was _definitely_ biting. There was biting going on on his _neck._ He runs his fingers over the scratches on a fuel line—light and shallow, even the worst of it is more like a couple sharp dents, self-repair's already taking care of it—and shivers. (In fear! Definitely in fear. Nothing else, no _sir.)_ That could have gone _so bad._

And—frag—yeah, _great_ idea, Hot Rod, invite the Decepticon back to your ship! And—somehow convince him to carry you! In his cozy, totally _un_ safe arms! That's _fine!_

Everything gets fuzzier after that. He remembers clinging, and Deadlock refusing to spike him, the bastard, and… maybe the vague impression of someone talking to him and plugging him in?

He puts a hand over his face in despair. "He's _decent_ and I _didn't frag him."_

Eventually he finishes his cube and gets most of the way over his sparkache. The _spikeache_ is, unfortunately, a lower priority than making sure that his super hot, super decent mech didn't, you know, leave a bug or a tracker or a _bomb_ or something.

He doesn't find a bug or a tracker or a bomb. He does find _something._ Right in the middle of the dashboard. In plain sight. In glyphs so big you could read them from Cybertron. A commlink number, and, uh.

_I'll keep you awake next time. Call me ;)_

Primus, he's never laughed this hard in his _life._

**Author's Note:**

> me, writing this: haha what if deadlock's lowkey falling in love with him by the end of the fic  
> me, two hours later, completely serious: deadlock WILL fall in love with him by the end of the fic
> 
> also the title is from the Guys and Dolls song "Marry The Man Today" and i refuse to be the only one who's laughing about it

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22427764) by [cincilin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincilin/pseuds/cincilin)




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